Old Shoes For New Feet
by spatula spatula
Summary: Sam and Martin, postThe Bus. Originally written September 2003.


(Author's Note: This was originally written September 2003. It is being reposted to on account of my website no longer existing.)

**Old Shoes For New Feet**. Sam, Martin. Post-"The Bus."

_Summary_: Their first "date."

---

Martin takes her to some bar with a name she can't pronounce, in the hip part of town (at least, what's hip this week). She looks around at the women in Gucci skirts and Prada pumps, sitting leisurely at small tables and sipping apple martinis, and she feels decidedly underdressed. When the hostess parades them through the tables to a booth in the back, Samantha is unconsciously fiddling with her hair; wavy, and slightly unkempt, because she didn't feel like straightening this morning.

They sit in silence. A waiter comes, and she orders vodka, neat, but doesn't hear what he gets. When he leaves, Martin's hands are playing with the silverware.

She inhales. "This place is…nice."

His fingers are still. "Not your kind of place?"

"I didn't say that." She smiles; underneath the table, her own hands are smoothing invisible wrinkles from her jeans.

Their drinks appear. Martin asks if she's eaten anything, would she like something? Just a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders; he mutters something to the waiter, and again, she doesn't hear it, partly because she doesn't care.

"Sam?"

Picks up her glass. She ignores the name. "Yeah?"

"You're about a hundred miles away over there."

A small crease appears on her forehead. "Sorry." The vodka burns a little on the first sip, but she barely notices.

Martin's glass clinks when he sets it back down on the table. "Did you sleep at all?"

Her eyes blaze with accusation. She blinks, and it's gone. In a soft voice: "Have you ever done something really stupid?"

"Once." He smiles. It's hard to believe it was only once. "I was eleven, and the babysitter let me eat an entire carton of ice cream. What about you?"

He thinks it's funny. The glass to her lips; she could lie and deny it.

"Two men are lying in the morgue because I put them there. That's pretty stupid."

There's a sharp breath on the other side of the table. His voice is oddly monotonous. "You did the right thing."

She sighs. "I know, I know." She's said it too many times today, and every time it's less convincing.

Silence. Eventually, the waiter comes again, and Martin orders them a second round without asking. A fresh glass, and she does the same with the conversation. Tries, at least.

"The kids, they're all right?" Not here, but the words are familiar to her, the way her mouth forms around them.

"Yeah." Samantha doesn't miss the sigh of relief. "Minor bumps and bruises."

Fingers tapping on her legs. "Good."

"What–" He pauses, leaning across the table to be closer to her. His voice is softer. "You left this afternoon in quite a hurry."

She doesn't move. "I didn't leave. I was sent home."

He swallows the distinction. "What happened?" As an afterthought, "Can I ask?"

It's hard to tell what he's asking about. Samantha blinks. "It was my first full day back in the field and I screwed up. I went for my gun. I shot two men, and now they're dead. Jack– Jack was–" She stops, and something in her changes. She can't bear to look at him. "I don't know what Jack was, honestly."

Martin runs his finger along his fork. Calmly, he asks, "Tonight, is that what you came for?"

A sharp breath, and she might have choked if her glass wasn't empty. "I'm sorry?"

More vodka is set down in front of her and she drinks it fast, hoping he won't notice. She looks up and he smiles into his drink (which she never bothered to notice was vodka, on the rocks). She doesn't get the joke.

Already, she can feel the alcohol tingling in her. Martin, however, seems perfectly sober. "That was uncalled for. I'm sorry."

She's not sure what to say. They are tap-dancing around sensitive ground. "Okay."

"Really." Pushing forward. "I didn't mean to– that was cheap. I'm sorry."

"Martin." There's a half-smile on her lips, for no discernable reason. "It's okay. No harm done."

He nods and smiles, understanding. Martin notices her empty glass. "You want another?"

"No, actually," she hates to do this to him, "I think I just want to go home and sleep."

Hand raised, he motions to the waiter. It suddenly occurs to her– "Oh, shit." Her palm on her forehead, she laughs nervously. "I don't– I walked from my apartment, I didn't bring any cash."

Martin's smile is automatic. "Don't worry about it."

She unconsciously puts her hands on her empty pockets. "Really?"

The waiter sets down the small black book with the check. Martin reaches into his suit jacket and retrieves his wallet. Inside, he tucks a few bills in– quickly, so she won't notice, even though she does. "No harm, remember?" A smile forms around his words.

Samantha smiles a beat later, a little off her game. "Right."

They share a cab. Samantha can't help making the calculations in her head– Soho to her place, and then on to Queens. He slips in behind the driver and she leans forward to tell him her address. "I owe you," she says to Martin.

There's something in his eyes. "For what?"

"This." He's silent. She tries again: "The drinks, the cab, the company. I owe you."

He shakes his head once. "'Nah."

"Martin–"

"Sam." There it is again. "My treat."

This time, she sees the virtue in not arguing. "Okay."

Martin is tapping his fingers on the armrest along the door. "You, uh, going to be in tomorrow?"

She pauses, longer than she intended. "Of course. Last thing I need is OPR thinking I've turned into a nutcase over this." Samantha sees the way he flinches at this. "Martin?"

It's gone. "Yeah?"

"Something on your mind?"

He hesitates again. "No. It's nothing."

A part of her knows that's not true, but she doesn't care. The streets are becoming familiar again. She's felt so alone since the shooting, but tonight is the first time in a while when it doesn't bother her that much. The cab finally slows at the end of her block. Martin passes the driver money to pay the fare, and then surprises her by getting out of the cab, too. He taps the hood and the guy drives away.

She is standing on the sidewalk. "What are you doing?"

He walks up on the sidewalk, looking up to inspect the nine-story apartment building. The pause is killing her, until he replies, "There's a subway stop about a block from here. We passed it. I'll just catch a train to Queens."

"Oh." She tries her best to hide the relief.

The beginnings of a grin. "You thought–"

"No!" (Actually, yes.) Samantha smiles, too. "I didn't."

"Right," with disbelief and a smile. There's a moment, that could be something if she tried, but she just watches him. He's just staring back, and then he breaks and says, "So I'll see you tomorrow?"

For some reason, it takes everything in her to force a smile. "Yeah."

He waves, and she turns to her building. Halfway up the stairs, she stops and watches him walking down the sidewalk, unable to explain the part of her waiting for him to turn back and see her watching. He doesn't. With a shake of her head, she retrieves her key from her pocket and pushes the door open.

Four houses down, Martin turns in time to see her disappear inside.


End file.
